


Christmas Dreams

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bigfoot - Freeform, Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since coming back human from Purgatory, Castiel has been in a depressive fugue. Sam takes it upon himself to cheer him up, but his plans get somewhat sidetracked when he, Dean, and Castiel are sent on a hunt for Bigfoot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Sassy Minibang. Awesome art can be found at http://pro-kira.livejournal.com/153314.html

It's the thirteenth day of December when Sam finally turns to Dean and says, "I think something's wrong with Cas."

Dean just glances at him from where he's lounging on top of discolored beige sheets with Sam's laptop on his chest, rolls his eyes, and asks with no small amount of sarcasm, "What was your first clue?"

To be fair, the thought was a long time coming. Almost two months' time, since Dean and Castiel came back from Purgatory in the beginning of October. Since Castiel burned a hole in the fabric of reality to get himself and Dean through, using his Grace as fuel.

And it's not like Sam expected Cas to be super happy about that. He imagines that it probably sucks, having to essentially set a part of yourself on fire. Sam doesn't kid himself into thinking that he understands everything Castiel is going through, but he's _pretty sure_ that had to hurt.

But the thing is, since coming back powerless, Cas has just drawn away from them. He sits sullenly in diners when they go out for meals, ordering either the blandest thing on the menu or nothing at all. He doesn't laugh at Dean's jokes even when Sam is pretty sure that he gets them; he hasn't shown any sign of caring about whether or not he makes it through a hunt; he doesn't seem happy at all to be back from Purgatory, and in his right mind. And if anything, he's declined since he got out.

Case in point, the quirk he's developed in the last week. Of sitting in the Impala while Sam and Dean waste time in their motel room. He doesn't listen to the radio or anything; he doesn't even turn on the heat (which, frankly, Sam is a bit concerned about, seeing as this is shaping up to be a hard winter). It's not healthy at all.

There's not really any point in saying all of that to Dean, though. He'll just roll his eyes and mumble about Cas being Cas, and pretend that he's really not all that worried about him. So instead Sam replies, "I think I'm going to go and talk to him."

"You do that." Dean nods with faked enthusiasm, his eyes glued to the screen of Sam's laptop, engrossed by whatever he's looking at. It's as close to having his blessing that Sam is going to get (not that he needs a blessing – it's just that he kind of figured that maybe Dean could shed some light on what's going on with him, considering that they spent almost five months trapped in a realm that neither of them are willing to describe beyond, "It was dark and there were trees."). So Sam shrugs on his coat and stuffs his hands into his pockets, and then opens the door to step outside to the chilly parking lot. They're in North Dakota on a hunt, and the sky is steel grey. Coupled with the cold that pierces through like a knife, Sam is fairly sure that there's snow in the forecast.

The Impala is parked right outside their room, thank goodness. Sam takes one long step and he's right there, leaning in at its window. Castiel is curled up on the back bench, staring moodily at the cars racing by on the highway parallel to the motel. He knocks on the window to get Castiel's attention.

The ex-angel glances up at him without any particular rush (never mind that Sam could have easily been a stranger or a monster or Meg, come from her new throne in Hell to take Castiel as her consort or something). He blinks.

Sam tries the door and find that it's unlocked. He sticks his head inside and asks, breath puffing out in a frosty cloud before him, "Can I come in?"

Castiel shrugs. That's another thing: it's not like he was exactly chatty before, but since he's come back, Castiel has been making full use of the wide range of body language. If it's a yes-or-no question, he almost never bothers to use his vocal cords.

In any case, a shrug is as close to permission as Sam is going to get. He slips inside and shuts the door behind him, and then starts rubbing his hands together in an attempt to keep himself from getting frostbite while sitting outside a motel with pretty decent heating.

Cas has gone back to watching the cars. At a lost for anything else to say, Sam says, "It's cold out here. You should come in."

Castiel shrugs, still more interested in rush hour than him. Sam waits a minute, but it becomes clear very quickly that he's not going to say anything else. So Sam tries again. "How've you been feeling lately?"

This does get him a glance, one that's very brief and more confused than anything, but a glance nevertheless. When Castiel opens his mouth and actually speaks, something inside Sam cheers like the home team after a crushing victory. "Decent."

The fact that it's only one word kind of quells Sam's enthusiasm. He frowns. Subtlety clearly isn't going to work with Cas (and it was kind of silly of him to expect it to; angel, human, or whatever, Castiel has never been one for picking up on the not-so-blatant things). So Sam sidles closer to Castiel and opens his mouth, intending to ask him all of the things that have been on his mind recently: how's your transition to humanity been going? Are you okay with hunting? Why are you isolating yourself like this? How can I _help_?

What comes out instead is, "Can I hug you?"

That does get Castiel's attention: he sits up and looks straight at Sam, his brows drawn tight together with a confused frown. To be fair, it gets Sam's attention too, mainly because he's not sure where the hell it came from.

He's about to tell Castiel that he didn't mean that, that just because seeing Castiel curled up like that awakened some sort of protective instinct that insists that the best form of protection is hugs, he doesn't actually _want_ to do it, when Castiel looks away and says, "If you wish."

Sam blinks. He wasn't expecting _that_ , and for a moment, he doesn't entirely know how to respond.

But then he reasons that Castiel just told him that he could hug him. Castiel, who's never once initiated physical contact with anyone, as far as Sam knows (well, except for when he's trying to kill them, and when he was crazy, and there _was_ that one time with Meg — but other than that, he's an island of a man.). If he said that Sam could, then that means _something_. It could just be that he's become so apathetic to the world that he no longer cares is someone touches him or not. But it could also mean that he still wants the hug that Sam denied him that one time (and okay, Sam feels kind of bad about that. It was a dick move, and he knows it).

In any case, he decides to stop thinking and instead just do it. He leans forward and carefully wraps his arms around Castiel's form, which is curled up as best as it can be. Cas doesn't adjust himself to make things any easier, and so Sam ends up kind of draping himself over his body, his long arms wrapping all the way around Castiel's torso.

He rests his head on Castiel's shoulder, kind of — he doesn't want to actually put weight down on him. He hasn't really been eating much, and Sam is worried that his bulk will be too heavy for Cas to take.

If it is, though, Castiel doesn't mention it. He finally shifts a little bit so that Sam's hand isn't entirely squashed against the leather of the seat. Sam thinks he also leans in to the hug a bit, but that might be his imagination. That, or Castiel is cold and unconsciously seeking out the nearest source of warmth. Both possibilities are equally likely.

Sam holds on to Castiel for several heartbeats, and then releases him and sits upright. Castiel just kind of stays in the same, vaguely-fetal position on the bench. There's something in his face that adds a tinge of sadness to the previous layer of apathy, or so Sam thinks. With Castiel, it's hard to tell.

Keeping his eyes on him, Sam asks, "What's up with you, Cas? Ever since you came back from Purgatory, you haven't been yourself."

That's not the end of his speech at all (he's planning to mention how Cas has been drawing away from him and Dean, how little he's been eating, and how much support he has around him) but surprisingly enough, Castiel actually snorts a bit at that. "I burned my Grace, Sam. It went up like holy oil after having a match tossed on it, and by the time that Dean and I were out, there was nothing left of it. At all. Of course I'm not myself; I'm missing a fundamental part of my being!"

The answer, snide as it is, actually cheers Sam up greatly. There was a snatch of passion in Castiel's voice for a minute, of caring about what he was saying. That's far better than the endless apathy that's been his default since Purgatory. He's not really sure how to deal with Castiel's words, but at least he knows that he can try. "So. What can I do to make you feel more… yourself?"

Castiel glowers at him for a moment, and then he turns away, apparently having said all that he's going to on the matter. Great. Now Sam doesn't have a sullen fallen angel on his hands; he's got a pissed-off one.

But. He's kind of determined now. He got Castiel talking, and now that he's had a taste of victory, he can't just _stop_. It's not the Winchester way. Not that Sam usually buys into the pseudo-macho bullshit anyway, but in this case… he just does. So he gives Castiel a minute to stew in his misery and watch the first few snowflakes that are tumbling out of the sky, and then he asks, "Is there anything else? That's bothering you, I mean?"

Apparently his earlier questions opened up a floodgate or something, because Castiel replies almost instantaneously to this. "These motel rooms are miserable. They're cramped, smell strange, and while I never had an opinion on cockroaches before, I can say as a certainty that I don't appreciate waking up with one on my pillow. I—"

He cuts off suddenly, like he's realized that he's been _talking_ , and that is just Not Okay. Sam makes a mental note to talk to Dean about how much he's rubbed off on Castiel, and how that's not really a good thing, and it would probably be healthy for everyone involved if they started communicating. During supper or something. Sam's heard that family dinners are supposed to do wonders for helping emotional repression.

"You what?" he asks, reaching out to squeeze Castiel's shoulder. "It's okay. I want to help you, Cas."

Castiel tucks his chin against his knees, looking for all the world like a moody child. "Nothing."

"No. I want to know what it is, Cas. Please, just talk to me. That's all I'm asking." Sam almost adds _You owe that much to me_ , but he stops himself at the last minute. He doesn't want to dredge up the things that Castiel did in the past, because making him feel guiltier than he generally does (which, in all fairness? is pretty damn guilty) wouldn't be a nice thing to do. It's more or less water under the bridge now; they've all paid their debts for the things that they did in desperate times.

There's a long pause, and then Castiel finally, grudgingly answers in a mutter so low that at first Sam isn't certain that he heard right. "I'm _homesick_."

"You're… homesick?" He frowns, trying to keep his voice neutral. "For… home?"

"For _Heaven_ ," Castiel growls out. He's completely facing away from Sam right now, staring only at the parking lot. Not that Sam can blame him. It's the first snow that they've run across this season, and despite how Sam is currently kind of freezing and would really like to be back inside the motel room, he has to admit that it's kind of pretty. "I'll never see it again, and while I didn't have any particular attachments to it as a location before, I do now."

Sam nods, slowly processing it. Heaven. He supposes that it makes sense; it was where Castiel spent the first couple millennia of his life (or more; they don't really know how old he actually is, and it seems rude to ask). "What do you miss?"

"I miss the Axis Mundi, and I miss the Garden. I miss the flowers and the sky and the grass and everything else that was in my choice location. I miss feeling my brothers around me constantly, and knowing that I played a part in something greater than myself, and I miss having the staunch belief that my Father was out there, and that he cared about me."

He stops then, out of breath, and Sam starts to feel a little like he's in over his head. He's determined not to let it show, though. He _can_ deal with this. He can. "Well. I know that we can't get you back the Axis Mundi, but there are a lot of nice gardens on Earth. I mean, there aren't any where we are right now because it's winter, but in the summer we can go to some parks and stuff. And I mean, I know Dean and I don't really count, but we both think of you like our brother, and we're always there for you."

Castiel snorts in response. Sam isn't entirely sure how to take that, but he's fairly certain that it's not a positive sign. Especially since it means that Cas has taken up snorting, which really isn't a good thing.

Sam hesitates, trying to decide if his last thing is appropriate or if it's just going to mess Cas up. Finally he decides to risk it, even though he knows that it could be seriously misinterpreted. "And, Cas, you're gonna see Heaven again. There's no way that you're going to be denied entrance if they could forgive me and Dean, you know? I'm sure that they'll let you visit the Garden, and your favorite Heaven, and everything. After you've lived an awesome human life, I mean."

Finally, Castiel sits straight up and turns his whole body towards Sam. In the dim light from the motel it's hard to read his expression, and Sam can't tell if he looks more sad or angry. "Dean didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"About Purgatory?" Sam shakes his head, and Castiel sighs. "That's where we go. Dead angels. We met them there, Anna and Balthazar and Rachel, Gabriel, Raphael, Hester, Uriel — they were all there. And they were monsters just like everything else that was after us. _That's_ what I have to look forward to. Purgatory, not Paradise. Being made into a creature that snarls and laughs and tries to kill anyone who comes near me. A creature that's out of its mind, and just wants to _hurt_ however it can."

He breaks off, slouching down on the seat. His sadness is palpable, and Sam wants to hug him again, but he doesn't think that would be appropriate. There's no good way to respond to what he was just told, but Sam tries his best. "Maybe you won't end up there. I mean, you're a human now, not an angel. And you don't act like I did when I was soulless, so you have to be a real person."

"If I'm a real person, I'll end up in Hell. I declared myself a God and killed hundreds. That's unforgiveable."

"Nothing is unforgiveable," Sam says stubbornly. "I forgave you for that, and Dean did too. If we could, then I'm sure God can."

"You two are flawed mortal beings. It's understandable that _you_ could overlook such blasphemy and destruction. God, however, cannot. He would be a poor God if he let everyone who claimed to be him into his kingdom. But it's a moot point, anyhow. All of the angels that we met told me that I would join them when I died, and I don't think they were lying. I know that their aim was to hurt me," he adds quickly, before Sam can point that out. "But they weren't lying when they threw my past sins back in my face, or when they talked of Dean's regrets. I don't think that they would lie then."

"They didn't know you were going to become human, though."

That gives Castiel pause for a moment, and Sam things that he can see him frown as he considers that, but in the end he just shakes his head and says, "No, they didn't. But I don't think it matters. I was an angel at creation, and I expect to be judged as that, not as what I die as."

Sam bites his lip. He doesn't know how to convince Castiel that he'll get to Heaven again (partially because he… doesn't actually know if it's true or not; he wants to believe that it is, but God's ways have always been too mysterious for him to even try to comprehend). There's no way he's going to be able to do that tonight, definitely. So instead, he decides to focus Castiel on something else. "Well, I know you're homesick, but Earth is your home now, and it can be pretty awesome."

"I've yet to experience much of that."

And that really isn't too fair. Granted, they _have_ been travelling ever since Dean and Cas came back from Purgatory, once they got the whole Kevin thing and Meg, Queen of Hell, and Crowley, Dead, thing sorted out. That took a few weeks that weren't really fun for anyone involved. But they haven't been troubled by demons since as part of the deal they cut with Meg, and Kevin texts Sam every week just to make sure that things are still fine (he's currently ranked seventh in his class, which is actually pretty good for someone who spent the end and the beginning of two school years being the prisoner of a group of Biblical monsters).

And okay, maybe they have just been focusing on the technical elements of Castiel's newfound humanity — on that he's sleeping, that he's eating enough to stay healthy, on that he has enough clothes to last him until they get their asses around to going to a Laundromat. Neither Sam nor Dean has really been making it a priority to see that Castiel was learning how cool humanity could be.

As he sits there in the dark car with Castiel and with snow swirling all around them, as he rubs his hands together in an attempt to get circulation going, Sam realizes that that right there is a problem. It's not enough for Castiel to just be alive if he's miserably homesick and awaiting an even grimmer afterlife. He needs to learn to enjoy food and music and family and celebrations and everything else that a mortal life has to offer.

And so right there, right then, Sam decides that he's going to teach Castiel about all those things, and make him realize how great being a human can be. He's going to make Castiel _happy_ , no matter what it takes.

Castiel comes into the motel room shortly after Sam does, apparently giving in to the temptation of a climate-controlled environment. He goes straight to his bed and lies down flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It's a far cry from the more-or-less fetal position that he took on in the Impala.

Sam is lying back on his own bed, his legs curled in order to fit all of his self onto the small mattress. He's flipping through the television stations, trying to find a movie that might serve as a starting point to getting Castiel to realize how cool humanity can be. It's a futile quest; the snow isn't falling too hard outside, but it's windy and the quality of the image sucks, lines of static flickering constantly across the screen. He presses the 'power' button of the remote with a sigh, admitting defeat.

"So are we gonna go after this thing tomorrow?" Dean asks from where he's seated, which is at the one miserable table in the room. It's wobbly and scarred, and has an ugly mustard-colored plastic top. He apparently migrated there from his bed at some point while Sam was getting Castiel to open up about his feelings. "I think we've got all the stuff we need."

"Uh, sure. Yeah, sounds great. Cas, do you think you're ready?" Sam rubs his eyes. The hunt seems unimportant compared to getting Castiel into a better mindset, although the five victims so far would probably disagree. All of the deaths fit the patterns of ghouls left unsatisfied by the taste of dead people's blood, something they hadn't come across in a couple of years. Ghouls gone wild, that's what Dean had said when they figured it out, with that shit-eating grin of his on his face. Sam had rolled his eyes; Castiel hadn't reacted, but presumably, he hadn't understood.

"I'm up for whatever you have to offer," Castiel answers. It's more than he's said in front of the two of them for a considerable amount of time, and Dean glances over at Sam, raising his eyebrows. Sam nods, just enough to tell Dean that yeah, they made a bit of progress. Not much, but it's something.

"We'll do it tomorrow, then," Dean says. He grimaces, and then adds, "If the snow's cleared up."

"It doesn't look like it'll amount to much." It was too light and fluffy for that. Sam doubts it'll build up too much on the ground.

"Yeah, hopefully." Dean stands up and stretches, before he lets his arms fall down with a _thump_. "I'm hitting the sack, then. Night, Sam. Cas."

"G'night," Sam replies. Castiel, predictably, doesn't say anything. He just rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, apparently not in the mood to put on pajamas (he does that sometimes. Dean says that he's just lazy; Sam thinks that it's more like him not fully getting human customs. Castiel hasn't bothered to enlighten them).

Sam sighs and stands up, loping over to the bathroom to take a final piss before he goes to bed. He's made some advancement with Castiel, at least, and now that he knows for certain what's wrong, he can go about fixing it. It isn't like it'll be easy, getting Cas to view his humanity as anything other than a countdown to an even worse prison sentence, but Sam is always up for a challenge.

"Place is cold as death tonight," Dean grumbles right before he throws Sam a shit-eating grin. Or at least, Sam thinks that's what it is. The flashlight isn't exactly positioned to show off Dean's features, but it's hard to imagine anything else gracing Dean's visage after making such a stupid pun. One that Sam decides is best left ignored.

Of course, Dean does have a point. The cemetery is freezing, their breath puffing before them like gas out of exhaust pipes. The snow from the flurries last night didn't pile up, thank goodness, but the grass underfoot is hard and crunchy with frost. Sam's hands are chilled through the gloves that he's wearing, and he's actually a bit worried about being able to handle a gun.

Dean doesn't seem to be having any of those problems, although he's probably just hiding it. Hunting makes him happy, Sam thinks – on their last case, a basic salt-and-burn to teach Castiel the basics of grave digging and getting your lighter to light when there's an evil hair dresser trying to blow-dry you into the Pit, he was actually laughing, whooping like the adrenaline was getting to him.

He's been like that a lot lately. His sarcasm isn't gone, and it's not like he's been opening up about his feelings (case in point: how he just mutters about Castiel being 'fine' whenever the subject comes up), but some of the times he seems, well… happy? Sam is hesitant to call it that, but he knows that Dean isn't like he was before, not half so beaten down. Sam doesn't know what changed in Purgatory (besides being forced to go through withdrawal; Dean's hinted at that, and the way that he hasn't touched a drop since coming back pretty much confirms it) but he's kinda happy to have Dean here again.

And anyway, it's not like Dean's hunting was dependent on him being in a depressive fugue. He's the best he's been in a long time, his reflexes honed, his fingers quick without being trigger-happy. He's strong, too; none of the softening of the body that sometimes comes with people past the age of thirty. Sam's happy for all of that, he really is. He just kind of wishes that he knew what happened to make Dean come back to life like this.

The ghouls, to the best of their knowledge, are hiding in a mausoleum in the center of the Stone Ridge Cemetery. Dean shines his light on it as they approach; sure enough, the lock is broken. It's subtle, not something that a quick passerby would notice, but it's enough to lend credibility to their belief.

The door opens with a loud creak when Dean pushes on it, and the three of them automatically freeze. There's nothing but silence from the center of the tomb. Quiet as the dead, Sam thinks. His brother would appreciate that one.

Dean glances back at Sam, and Sam gives him a minute nod. Dean resumes opening the door at a far slower pace. It doesn't prevent the noise completely, but it's better than before.

Once it's open wide enough, Dean slips inside. Sam waits a minute and then follows at Dean's signal, Castiel close behind him. Cas has a flashlight too, and he sweeps it over the crypt. It's dusty and covered in cobwebs, an elaborate casket set in the center of it with a plaque made out of some shiny metal at its base. Cas glances at it for a moment, and then looks elsewhere, apparently uninterested.

Dean takes a tentative step deeper into the mausoleum. "I don't see-"

There's a small noise from the back, and that's all the warning that they have before they're under attack. Two ghouls in the shape of stolen bodies leap out from the back, lethal-looking knives in hand and mouths curled open in snarls. Another pair blocks the door, and one more slips out from the shadows of the tomb's center. In total, it's five against three.

Sam reacts instinctively, shoving Castiel down and against the back wall of the crypt as Dean shoots, taking out one of the ones from the back with his first shot. It's a small space, and it's incredibly dangerous to be firing inside of it, but he's a sure shot – they both are, or else they would have taken the more complicated route of taking the ghouls outside. The head of the first shot explodes in a mess of brains and blood, and Sam grimaces as he feels some of it splatter him. He doesn't take the time to wipe off his cheeks, though, because another is bearing down on him and Castiel. He just has time to raise his gun and fire into its chest. It falters for a moment as the bullet sinks through its ribs. Sam takes advantage of the distraction and lets loose a shot that goes straight through its cheekbone and puts it down for good.

While he's dealing with that, he assumes that Dean has the rest covered. He hears three, and then four shots fired from behind, and as he swings around, he's actually pretty impressed. Dean's a quick shot, sure, and he's in his best form since they were kids, but getting off four while Sam makes two? Either Sam's really losing it, or Dean's got some sort of super-strength that he's not telling Sam about.

And then Sam realizes that no, it wasn't Dean. There's another figure standing in the mausoleum's entrance, one that Dean has his gun leveled at. He automatically raises his too, as Castiel stands up looking vexed, and as Dean says all calm and slow, "How 'bout you put that gun down before someone gets hurt?"

"And why should I do that?" It's a woman's voice, accented and vaguely familiar. Sam frowns, but he keeps his gun steady. No telling if she's a threat. There's not enough light to see her face, in any case; the flashlights that he and Dean were holding were dropped when they drew their weapons. Castiel is holding his and Sam's, but there's no sign of the one that Dean was carrying. It probably broke when it hit the hard stone floor.

"Cause I told you too, sweetheart," Dean drawls, although the woman's shot has made it blatantly clear that she's nobody's damsel-in-distress.

She thinks so too, judging by the derisive snort that she gives. "I just took out three of those grave robbers and you think I'm the sweet one? Honey, you got a lot to learn about the game."

Sam glances behind him to Castiel, who's hovering in the shadows, a flashlight in each hand. "Cas, shine some light on her, would you?"

He obeys wordlessly, sweeping both beams onto their mysterious backup. As soon as her face is lit up, a bulb of recognition lights up in Sam's mind. It's been what, five, six years since he last saw her? And it was only that one time. She's definitely grown older, her hair longer, and the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced. But she was with them on that hunt, the first time that Sam met Ruby. So it would be impossible for him to forget her name: "Tamara?"

She glances at him, her dark eyes piercing as if she can somehow read everything that he's done since they last met. But then she nods, a very small smile twitching up on her lips. "Sam and Dean. I thought it might be you."

The three of them lower their guns almost in unison, with Dean just a little way's behind. No one breaks their gazes, though. "There aren't many of us left, after all. But I thought it was just the two of you?"

"Oh, yeah." Sam beckons Castiel to stop hiding in the shadows. He comes forward reluctantly until he's standing just a little behind Sam's shoulders. "Tamara, this is Castiel. He's… a friend. Cas, this is Tamara; she's another hunter. We worked with her awhile back."

Cas and Tamara nod at each other, Tamara's expression politeness with a distinct undertone of curiosity, Castiel's, his usual impassiveness,

"We should get out," Dean says. He steps forward, not waiting for an answer. "I don't think we're gonna be able to burn the ghouls. Let's just lock the door and hope that no one looks in until they've decayed."

It's not ideal, but they all agree that it's probably for the best. A fire on a night like this would be seen a mile away, and it would probably get the cops in pretty quickly. Besides, Sam imagines that ghouls decay quickly. They're essentially already dead.

They walk briskly back with Tamara, Dean not trusting her enough to bring her to the Impala (well, not that he says so, but Sam knows that he generally doesn't take people that he finds in cemeteries to his most precious object, even if said person is someone they've worked with in the past). Tamara, Dean, and he make small talk on the way; Castiel remains as silent as ever. Chatting is not something he quite grasps.

"I though you went back to England," Dean mentions. "After Isaac, and all."

"I did. For a little while, anyway. But I decided to come back. There's a much stronger network back home, all of the old hunting families connected in a great big web. There's none of that here. You needed me more."

"We can use all the help we can get," Sam agrees. They're not really sure how far the Leviathan problem spread, but it was definitely bad in the States (Castiel says he thinks that they also targeted Asia, primarily China and Japan, but he isn't entirely sure). In any case, it's nice to know that there are still familiar faces in the game. "Where are you headed to next?"

"Well… I'm not sure." They're at her car now, a small red number that looks to be a newer model. Sam can't tell; it's pretty dark, even with the flashlights, and he's never been as good at identifying cars as Dean. "I was actually planning to stop down in London over Christmas…"

"I thought we needed you more." There's no maliciousness in Dean's voice, just a mild curiosity. Tamara is offering them something, Sam thinks, and Dean is picking up on that, too.

"You do. But I think that you can hold on for a few months without my aid. I was going to go travelling across Europe. See what it's like in the winter, hunt a few of the local folktales, the like."

"Sounds like fun," Sam says honestly. Not necessarily the hunting part; he can take it or leave it these days – it doesn't really bring him pleasure, but he doesn't really know anything else, not at this point. He doesn't know if he's like to go back to school or not, to try to find some other job to spend the rest of his days doing. It's confusing and it probably wouldn't be possible, so Sam doesn't really think about it.

But travelling — that sounds nice. He's been to all of the Continental 48 multiple times (and Alaska, and Canada, although that wasn't entirely legal). It would be fun to see what the hunting scene is outside of the States.

"Oh, it will be fun," Tamara agrees. "Only problem is, I got word of a hunt when I'm supposed to be flying out in two days, and I don't think I can finish it… pity, because it's right near where the cabin is…"

It's obvious bait; she's not even trying to disguise it. Sam knows his brother must recognize that, but he takes it anyway. "Cabin?"

"A little place in Colorado, right up in the mountains. Used to be owned by a man named Dan Elkins?" At their recognition, she goes on, "He left it to me and Isaac. It's nice; big fireplace, full-sized, Bobby Singer–like panic room in the basement. The hunt I heard of is, supposedly, right in the woods behind it."

A glance at Dean's face tells Sam that his brother is listening very intently. Sam thinks that Castiel is too, although he's just staring up at the stars right now. Sam likes to think that Castiel is usually listening.

"I'll bite," Dean says. "What's the hunt?"

"Several people in the woods have disappeared, no trace but a few drops of blood and maybe a clump of hair or two. Big footprints have been found. They're keeping it quiet now, but it's not gonna be long until someone steps in." She smirks. "People love a good Bigfoot story, don't they?"

They get about five hours of sleep until it's light outside and they're on the road again. Dean's driving, naturally. Sam is in shotgun, after offering the seat to Castiel, who declined it in favor of curling up in his usual spot. He doesn't seem particularly excited that they're going off to kill an important part of American folklore.

After Dean had heard Tamara say what it was, the deal was made. His eyes had lit up like a four-year old on Christmas who just got that awesome fire truck that he'd been wanting. Tamara had passed over the keys to the cabin and had promised to email them all of her notes, and it was set. They were going to go and hunt Bigfoot.

Dean is considerably more energetic that day than he usually is at 7:00 in the morning. On the rare occasion that they just have to be awake then, Dean usually grouses at Sam or stares moodily down into his coffee – or at least he did before. They haven't had too many early mornings since he came back. But Sam just sticks that on his long list of other ways that Dean has changed; at the moment, he's happily drumming along to Bonzo's solo with his free hand.

"I can't believe it," he calls over the music. "Dude, we're actually going to hunt _Bigfoot_. Do you know how awesome that is?"

"I do. You've told me." Several times. Sam looks into the back seat, remembering his resolution of several days past, the one about helping Castiel to enjoy life again. "What about you, Cas? It's better than another salt and burn, right?"

Castiel blinks at him, actually making eye contact. He's been more or less completely silent since the cemetery last night, when Sam had automatically pushed him to the ground to protect him. Sam had apologized for that later, recognizing that at some point he's going to have to let Castiel fight for himself; it's not like he's incapable. It was just an instinctive reaction done to protect him. Castiel had said that it was fine, but Sam still felt kind of bad for it.

"It's just another hunt," he says at last. "And not for a monster. The creatures that have colloquially become known as 'Bigfoot' are of a natural origin. You're helping to drive a species to extinction, not saving the world from the supernatural."

There's no condemnation in his voice; Sam doesn't think that he cares enough to get all self-righteous. But it's quiet still in the Impala for a moment after he drops that bit of news, save for the Zeppelin blaring from the speakers. Then Dean says, "Well yeah, but it's still killing people. That means we need to kill it."

Castiel just shrugs and turns his face back to the window. Dean rolls his eyes and turns up the music, and Sam sits back in his seat and prepares for a very long ride.

It takes them a day and a half to get to the address that Tamara gave them. During that time, Sam and Dean take turns driving the Impala, and Castiel lies in the Impala's back bench. He's his usual withdrawn, vaguely moody self. Sam wishes that he could start on his plan to bring Castiel to a greater appreciation of humanity, but he's mostly too busy sleeping himself. That, or driving, and Dean doesn't allow any distractions when you're driving his baby. The one time that Sam turned around to talk to Cas, Dean's eyes snapped open (after he had been completely still for almost an hour, no less) and he had said, " _Drive,"_ in a guttural and vaguely terrifying voice. It wasn't something Sam wanted to bring on anytime soon.

In any case, they pull up at the cabin on the fifteenth day of December shortly before sunset. The driveway was steep and slippery, and covered with brambles that Dean kept having to brake for while he went outside and cleared them. There were a couple of moments when Sam generally doubted if they would make it all the way up, but the Impala didn't let them down.

Sam is grateful to be out of the car, even though it's obscenely cold outside (above freezing, though – the website that he glanced at in the last Wi-Fi-equipped diner they were in said that there was a brief warming trend before more storms were expected in). He rubs his hands briskly together and surveys the land while Dean digs out the key that Tamara gave them. It's a small cabin tucked in the middle of nowhere; that's all, really. There's a ski lounge some fifteen or twenty miles to the north, but it looks too heavily wooded in this area for it to be too appealing for skiers. Only one of the victims in the profile Tamara sent was a wayward wanderer from the mountains, though; the rest were hunters. Sam guesses that there must be a pretty good selection of non-monster prey in the woods.

He turns his back on the small cabin and the denser area of forest, looking down the way that they came. It's covered in pine needles and dead leaves, and snow that really hasn't mentioned. The last fall was two days ago, according to the site Sam looked at, and most of the ice melted due to it not being quite under the freezing level. He's pretty thankful for that. Had the weather been worse, they probably wouldn't have managed to get the Impala through the narrow, untrimmed path leading there. "It's gonna be tough getting out of here in a storm."

"You think I'd put my girl on the road in a blizzard?" Dean stabs the key in the lock. Tamara was last here over the summer, she said, and it should be in good condition. It still takes him a few tries to get the door open, although whether that's due to a faulty lock, ice, or shaking hands, Sam couldn't say.

Dean pushes the door open and enters hesitantly. Sam takes a few long steps across the yard until he's right behind him, and Castiel comes behind him, his duffel bag dangling from his hand. Dean's got his gun out, just in case. They didn't have any issues with Tamara the one time they worked with her, and Bobby had trusted her, but that was a number of years ago, and Bobby isn't here anymore. So it makes sense that they enter slowly, wary of any sort of booby traps or waiting leviathans or something.

It seems completely safe, though, if a little dark and dusty. Sam hears Dean sneeze as he makes his way to the nearest window and pulls up the curtain. Light filters in through the dusty pane that, alone with what's coming through the door, gives them a clear enough picture of the place that's going to be their new home for the next few days:

It's… small, Tamara hadn't made that part up. It can't be larger than most of the motel rooms they've been in, albeit a bit more rectangular than most of them. The leftmost wall is taken up almost entirely by a fireplace, with a great stone chimney leading up from it. A worn cranberry-colored couch is in the center of the room. An afghan is thrown over one arm, a quilt on the other. There's little else in the room, save for a card table in the back, two black chairs at either end of it, and a long woven rug with faded fringe in front of the couch. Oh, and a creepy deer head hanging on the wall, the sort of thing that can be found in every single movie cabin of all time. Sam grimaces. Even in the not-so-great lighting the thing's beady black eyes are unpleasant to look at.

There are five windows in total, two for each of the longer walls and one for the shorter one without a fireplace. All of them have curtains over them, for whatever privacy you might need in the middle of the woods.

It really, really isn't much to look at. Or to be in. But, Sam thinks, it looks solid enough. The walls are all standing, and none of the windows are smashed. And the roof doesn't look to be caving in either. That's always a plus.

Dean walks deeper into the cabin after they've all had a minute or two to look around. As he raises the shade on the other windows he says, "Well, we've seen worse."

"We have," Sam agrees. He drops his bags with a thump and goes over to the windows that Dean hasn't gotten to. The dust on the sill is thick, he notes, like no one's touched it in a couple of months. Good. "Remember that place Dad took us to when we were kids? I was… what, ten? That was the summer after I found out about monsters."

"I'd blocked most of that out." Dean shudders. "It was in South Carolina; some guy Dad knew in 'Nam owned it."

"The floor was rotting, there was no running water, and mosquitoes were _everywhere_." He wrinkles his nose at the memory, able to clearly recall the terror of making his way across the damp and creaking boards that separated the single room from a deep basement. And the perpetual buzzing sound from the mosquitoes and all of the other bugs in the area. It had been right on a swamp, and it had _sucked_. "I thought I was going to get malaria and die out there."

"You did not," Dean snorts. "You were ten, Sam. You didn't even know what malaria _was_."

"Yes I did." He can't remember if he did or didn't, in truth. But it doesn't really matter. Both of them (he thinks) recognize that this conversation is more for Castiel's benefit than anything. He's a part of their life now, and he should have some understanding of what it was like in the _old_ old days. That time before Sam left for Stanford.

It doesn't seem to be working, though. Castiel is just standing in the middle of the room and glancing around the cabin, like he missed something during his first lookover. He doesn't move to help with the lifting of the shades, too deep in his own thoughts. Neither of them press the issue; they're done in a minute, anyway.

The late afternoon light, or what makes it through all the thick trees surrounding them, just serves to emphasize how unused the cabin is, and how… technologically deficient it is. No running water, no bathroom, no heating system except for the fireplace. There's a distinctively musty smell mingling with the crisp winter air coming through the open door.

"Home sweet home," Dean announces. "Now, what did Tamora say about a panic room?"

The panic room, as it turns out, isn't _quite_ to Bobby Singer standards. The stairs leading down to it are hidden by means of a trapdoor under the fringed rug, which is about as predictable a hiding place as one could get. In the room itself, the walls are tightly-packed dirt instead of demon-repelling metals, and it doesn't seem quite as solid as his was (it survived the leviathans' burning in almost perfect condition. Sam's still not sure how the authorities managed to make sense of an iron room with esoteric symbols covering the walls).

Still, the symbols stand out against the dirt walls in bright paint, clearly reinforced by Tamora the last time she was there. It seems safe enough, for what essentially amounts to a root cellar in the middle of the Colorado woods. And it's well-stocked, too; rows of nonperishable food items and bottled water (conveniently divided into "Holy" and "Drinking") line one wall. There's salt, too, which Sam expects helps to make the driveway a bit more manageable in the winter, along with the whole 'repelling demons' thing.

Best of all, though, is the firewood. The cellar has kept it perfectly dry, and there are _piles_ of it. Far more than they're going to need. There are a couple of insulation blankets too, and a few things of gasoline, though whether or not the cold temperature has affected that Sam really couldn't say.

Dean cheers when he sees it. "Guess we're not gonna have to play lumberjack," he says, bending down and scooping up a perfectly-split log. "Want to get one going now, warm the place up a little?"

"Sounds like a plan." Sam bends down and grabs a couple of pieces himself. Next to him Castiel does the same without being prompted. That makes Sam happy, though he's not entirely sure why. It's not like Castiel is lazy, or like he just sits around all day. There's just something about that gesture that makes him look like part of the Winchesters, and it… it's nice. Sam likes that.

Upstairs, Dean starts on the fire, calling over Castiel so that he can explain how to use the fireplace (though Castiel might already know, given the couple of millennia that he has on Dean). Sam heads back out to the Impala to bring in the rest of their stuff, which is mostly just research material that he printed out before they got here, anticipating the lack of Wi-Fi. There's one another bag there too, though, things Sam grabbed while Dean was making a pit stop in a grocery store bathroom and Castiel was waiting out in the car. He slips his wrists through the flimsy plastic handles and shuts and locks the doors to the Impala. He's determined to start getting through to Cas tonight, and there is absolutely nothing that's going to stop him.

The fire is roaring away by the time he gets back in and shuts the door behind him. It's already starting to heat up the cabin, which Sam thinks is a Very Good Thing. The nights here generally don't stay above freezing, and Sam doesn’t think that the coming one will be an exception.

"What’s the game plan?" he asks Dean as he drops the bags onto the cabin's floor. "Tracking tomorrow, hunting on Saturday?"

His brother glances up from where he's sprawled on the couch (Castiel is lurking in the corner, not that he can really stay out of view, with the cabin being the size of an unambitious bedroom). "I think so. There's not really anyone we can go after for an interview."

Dean is right on that, something that Sam had considered before. The victims were all alone in the woods; there's actually not a whole lot of info to go on, save for the area's persistent Sasquatch myths, and the mysterious clumps of white hair reported at the crime scenes. It's enough for them, though. "So we head out tomorrow morning and scout the woods, then, if we have something, come back for it the day after? Or do you want to hunt with the intention of killing it tomorrow?"

"Always hunt to kill," is Dean's immediate response. Sam doesn't argue. The quicker they're done with this, the faster the people of Colorado can go back to enjoying their mountains. And the quicker they can get somewhere with actual heating, nice as the fire feels.

So instead of pressing the point, Sam kneels and starts rifling through the bags. "I got some stuff at that last store."

"Is it all health food crap or is there something in it for me?"

Sam pulls out the bag of marshmallows and throws it at Dean, grinning when he yelps at it hitting his chest. "Something for you _and_ Cas. When was the last time we made s'mores?"

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. Sam knows he's trying to remember, but he's certain that Dean won't come up with anything. He can't remember either, but he thinks it was when they were kids. Definitely not since Dean sold his soul, and their lives all went to Hell.

He doesn't mention any of this to Dean, though; instead he just says, "I thought so," and pulls out the chocolate bars and the graham crackers. "And Cas, I'm guessing you've never had them?"

Castiel glances up and then looks away just as quickly. "No."

"Then you haven't lived," Dean declares. He tosses down the newspaper he was flipping through and stands up from the couch, cracking his back as he stretches. "You have anything to roast those babies on?"

"I don't, actually. Do you want to go get them, or…"

"Sure." Dean picks his jacket up from where he had unceremoniously dumped it on the floor and shrugs it on. He heads for the cabin's door, calling out, "Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone!" as he walks out into the chilly sunset.

"Come here, Cas," Sam calls, and he does, though his movements are slow and his expression guarded. He kneels down next to Sam, taking in the small spread of junk foot on the floor.

"D'you know what a s'more is?"

Castiel shakes his head, and Sam nods. The ex-angel is smarter than him by a couple of millennia, but Heaven's curriculum probably focused more on the big picture, on languages and weapons and wars. Not on the gooey confections made by two brothers as they sat in the woods with shotguns at their feet, waiting for their dad to come back.

"They're pretty awesome. So first, you roast a marshmallow—" he looks around briefly for the bag, before remembering that he threw it at Dean. He crawls forward a few steps until he can reach out with one arm and snag it to show Castiel. "—in a fire. You can do it in the microwave too, but it's a traditional campfire food, so Dean and I always did it like that. Once the marshmallow is good, you take a graham cracker and break it into halves—" he opens the soft cardboard box and tears open the golden wrappers surrounding the crackers, pulling one out so that Cas can see, "—and put the marshmallow on one of them. Then you take a piece of chocolate and put that on top, and then you close it with the other cracker half, and you're done."

To top off his speech, he breaks the graham cracker he was holding in half and gives one side to Castiel, biting into the other himself. The sweet cracker tastes a bit like honey. It's sweeter than he remembered, but he doesn't really care. It still reminds him of those nights before he knew what Dad was doing in the woods, when Dean would tell him ghost stories over the fire without mentioning that he was just talking about a case their father had worked on.

Castiel nibbles on the corner of his at first, but he seems to like what he tastes, because he quickly finishes it. The sight of it makes Sam obscenely happy, though he does his best not to let that show on his face. That would probably be kind of creepy, he thinks. Probably it's creepy in the first place, how invested he is in having Castiel be happy.

Dean comes in a moment later, a gust of cold air with him even though he only leaves the door open for half a second. "It's cold as balls out there," he announces, stamping snow out of his boots. "Are we supposed to get snow anytime soon?"

Sam thinks back to the last forecast that he'd seen before they came up here. "I don't know. I think they said there was like a thirty percent chance of it in the next week?"

"Frigging weathermen." Dean walks over to where he and Castiel are sitting and plops down, scattering the sticks that he'd brought in on the floor. "Why do they even get paid if they don't tell us anything?"

"One of the great mysteries of life." Sam picks up a stick and runs his hand along it. It's long and thin, but not so fragile that the weight of a marshmallow will cause it to bend. It'll work well enough. "You guys ready to start?"

"Hells yeah." Dean snatches up the marshmallow bag and rips it open. He pulls out a handful and pops all but one of them into his mouth. The lone holdout is speared onto his stick.

Sam rolls his eyes, and Castiel looks vaguely, tentatively amused. It's hard to make out beneath the thick ice of apathy that's always over his vision these days, but it's definitely there. It makes Sam's heart leap up, but again, he does his best not to show it as he takes a marshmallow for himself before passing the bag to Cas.

The three of them end up in front of the fire with Sam in the middle, Cas to his right and Dean his right. The graham crackers and chocolate bars are spread before them, turned into shades of bronze and orange by the flames. They're the only source of light in the cabin, save for the last desperate rays of sunlight. Thankfully, there's not much need for anything else, given how tiny the cabin is.

They thrust their sticks into the fire in almost perfect synchronization. The marshmallows start to brown almost immediately, turning that familiar golden brown that Sam hasn't seen in so long. He's so caught up in nostalgia that he almost forgets to rotate his marshmallow.

Castiel is watching him carefully, following his lead. When Sam turns his stick, he turns it. Sam is kind of flattered that he's the one Castiel is imitating for once (although that might just be because Dean's marshmallow had been taken as a blood sacrifice by the fire, and he's currently swearing and attempting to get another on his stick).

"I think they're done," Sam tells Castiel, right around the moment that Dean sticks his second one above the flames. "Now for the good stuff…"

He shows Castiel how to assemble the s'more: how to have the graham cracker halves spread out on the floor beforehand, so that you can quickly pull off the marshmallow without burning your fingers on it too badly; how to press the square of chocolate down on top of the sticky mess before it congeals; how to press the second cracker half on top of it all so that you have yourself a little sandwich. Castiel watches him closely and follows his steps carefully so that his is a near-perfect replica of Sam's.

Then they're all done, and Castiel is just kind of looking at it, weighing it in his hand like he's not entirely sure what to do with it. So Sam demonstrates that too: he opens his mouth wide and takes a large bite out of his s'more, getting half of it, more or less, in one mouthful.

The noises that he makes are not entirely appropriate as he moans around the melted chocolate and impossibly sweet marshmallow. Next to him, Dean snorts and says, "Gettin' a little excited there, are we?"

Sam doesn't bother responding to that, because at the exact same moment Dean's marshmallow catches on fire, and he's back to swearing at the flames. Sam smirks and swallows.

Castiel, thankfully, doesn't pay attention to Dean's issues. Instead, he follows Sam's lead and bites down on his s'more, just as tentatively as he tried the graham cracker a couple of minutes before.

His eyes widen as the harmony of chocolate, marshmallow, and cracker hits his taste buds. He takes a much larger bite right away, apparently not caring about how hot it is.

Sam bites the remainder of his in half and savors the sweetness. Watching Castiel, who has his eyes closed and a look on his face that's as close to bliss as Sam has ever seen, he asks, "Good?"

Castiel opens his eyes quickly, and he reddens slightly. His face shuts down some as he nods and murmurs, "Yes. Very."

Sam smiles and says, "Good," even though he's inwardly cursing himself. One day he's going to have to let Castiel on to the whole "Showing emotions doesn't make you a tool of the devil" thing. He's not sure if he should blame Dean or Castiel's Heavenly upbringing – Dean, because he's never been big on showing his emotions when showing them would actually cause something (such as a meaningful conversation) to happen. Maybe Castiel observed that and is taking it to an extreme, not showing anything at all, not even happiness (although Dean isn't exactly hiding his ecstasy right now, now that he's finally managed to put a s'more together, and what was that about _Sam_ making the pornographic noises?).

Or maybe it is just something left over from Heaven. It's no secret that angels weren't supposed to have emotions. That Castiel is clinging to that notion wouldn't come as a surprise to Sam.

In any case, repressing emotions = bad. It's just one more thing that Sam resolves to work on with Castiel, right up there with making him realize that life isn't the bleak pit of misery that he thinks it is. But for now, there are more s'mores to be had and more marshmallows to be lit ablaze, so Sam stabs another onto his stick and puts it into the fire, warm and fairly happy, and entirely glad to be alive.  
  


The next day they wake up bright and early. Or, more accurately, Dean wakes Sam and Castiel up at an obscene hour by lifting the shades and letting the sun shine in. By Sam's estimate, it's around 7:00 in the morning.

"Rise and shine," his brother says cheerfully. He's still wearing his sleep clothes as he stands next to the window, looking down at Sam and Castiel (Castiel's on the couch; he won the rock-paper-scissors match. It actually came down to him or Sam, but Sam let him win).

Sam squints as he gingerly rises to his feet. His mouth tastes of morning breath and marshmallows; there's no running water, naturally, and no one felt like wasting their bottled content on dental hygiene. "Time is it?"

"Seven o'clock." Score for Sam. "You two princesses have gotten your beauty sleep. C'mon, Cas, up and at 'em." Dean jabs Castiel in the shoulder blades; Cas groans and covers his head with his arm. One thing Sam has learned about Castiel is that he is extremely fond of sleeping. Sam isn't convinced that it's healthy.

"Cas!" He finally gets up at Dean's yell, still rubbing at his eyes. The clothes that he slept in are all rumpled, and part of Sam finds that highly endearing. He isn't sure why. Castiel's disregard for his appearance should be a warning sign, not a quirky and loveable trait.

"Get ready, you two." Dean strides to the door, not bothering to turn around as he calls out. "We’ve got a Bigfoot we need to be tracking."

The thing about Bigfoot is that he – it – they? – has large feet, which, according to logical thought process, should mean that they leave large footprints. Large footprints, combined with the slushy snow still coating the ground, means that any creature that walks shouldn't be _that_ hard to find. This makes perfect sense in Sam's mind, which isn't too shabby, if he does say so himself.

In reality, though… well, things are different.

The noon sun is bright in the otherwise grey sky as the three of them make their way through the woods like the stealthy hunters that they are. Every bit of brush is examined by their eagle eyes for tufts of hair; every inch of ground is checked for scat or prints. Their ears are open to the slightest sound: birds taking off, twigs cracking underfoot, people or small animals screaming as they get mauled by a cryptid.

Or, well. Theoretically that's how it is. In truth, Castiel isn't very good at tracking. He's got good eyes, granted, and the permanent tilt of his head strongly suggests to Sam that he's listening. But he isn’t really used to his human body. His steps are far clumsier than they should be, and he is forever bumping up against tree branches or bushes. Sam thinks that maybe this would have been a bit more productive if Castiel had stayed back at the cabin, but he wouldn't dare suggest it.

Anyway, as they press deeper and deeper into the woods, he has to admit that it isn't _that_ bad. Sam's been on some miserable tracks in his time, especially that one back alley search for a wererat when they were kids. This doesn't even crack the top twenty worst ones he's been on. It's miserably cold and probably pointless, but Dean is in a good mood, even for his post-Purgatory self. And the ground isn't as bad as it could be – muddy and slushy, snow melting in the recent "warming trend" (although if you ask Sam, it still feels like it's freezing), but it's not the sort of combination that pulls the boots off your feet, nor is it the slippery kind that makes you fall on your ass with your arms flailing out about you. It's unpleasantly mucky, yes, and Sam will probably have to clean his boots at some point, but it isn't terrible.

Dean is having the time of his life, enthusiastically leading them along trails that Sam misses at first glance. His feet fall silently on the ground, the mud apparently too awed by his presence to squelch. He keeps his gun low, but Sam knows he's ready to jump at a moment's notice.

It must be close to one in the afternoon when Dean calls out, "I think I've found something!"

Sam and Castiel trot to his side. He's standing next to a tree, hand resting on the bark as he stares at something just over his head.

They're right at Sam's eyelevel: claw marks. Four deep lines gouged into the tree, too in-unison to have been made by some natural accident. No, they were left on the tree by something that was alive. And considering that they're as tall as Sam's head? It had to have been something very, very _big_.

"I think you're right." Sam traces the marks. The exposed wood hasn't really started to weather, so he thinks that they're probably new. The cold climate might have something to do with that too, though. It's hard to tell.

Castiel is silent as he looks at them. If he's particularly awed at seeing the scratches of Bigfoot, he doesn't show it.

"It's the only set I can find around here, but I think it's worth taking a look." Dean glances at Sam, who nods his agreement. It's their best lead so far – their _only_ lead.

But as they venture down the path, Sam begins to pick out other signs. The trail they're on is one that's fairly easy to miss. It's off of the wide, main path that ventures through the woods, the one that even in bad weather has firmly a surface packed firmly down for cyclists and hikers. But there's no sign of maintenance on this trail: the ground is the slushy mud of somewhere that hasn't been trod on by countless feet. It's narrower, too: Sam probably couldn't walk side-by-side with Dean even if he wanted to.

For all that, though, there are signs of disturbance. Branches that look recently fallen have been pushed to the side haphazardly, as if kicked over by some lumbering creature's heavy feet. The soil/snow up ahead of them has been disturbed recently. Which, granted, could be due to deer or wolves or something. There are no prints to obviously disprove that. But Sam thinks that maybe that just upholds the idea that Bigfoot has been by recently: the muddy mixture is smeared, sort of, as if it had been walked upon by something that was slipping about on two feet.

They're on the right track, Sam certain of that. He tightens his hold on his revolver and lets out a huff of breath. Maybe they can even finish this up today, and be back on the road to somewhere more pleasant by the time the sun is setting. Maybe they can find somewhere relatively peaceful to hunker down for Christmas, and Sam can start seriously working on getting Cas to improve his outlook on life.

Naturally, they don't find Bigfoot that afternoon. They find scratches on five more trees, and they all agree that there are probably more: "It's like he's marking out his territory," Dean had said. Sam had agreed, and Castiel… hasn't disagreed.

They finally started back around three. The temperature had been steadily declining since noon, and, as Dean put it, "We have no idea if this thing's nocturnal or not. And if it goes hunting at night, well, I don't wanna be caught out here unprepared."

So they make their way back to the cabin, guided by Dean's internal compass. They get there within two hours, since they're not looking for clues or doubling around to check out every tree in a thirty-yard width. It's still dark, though, and the three of them are all suppressing shivers.

"The things I'd do for running water," Dean sighs as he chucks off his muddy work boots in favor of a new pair of woolen socks. "Or a microwave. What do we got to eat, Sammy?"

Sam glances up. He's knelt down next to the fireplace, trying to coax a small flame into something large enough to warm the three of them. "Um, I dunno. We've got some jerky in the trunk, I think." Although not the kind with the Sasquatch commercials, which is kind of disappointing. "Weren't _you_ supposed to pick something up at that rest stop?"

"Dude, I was in the can. You were the one who apparently only got stuff for _s'mores_."

Oh. Right. Sam winces, remembering how his intentions to grab a thing of hotdogs had been waylaid by his brilliant plan to introduce Castiel to s'mores. "There's stuff in the panic room, I think. Cas, want to come look with me?"

Castiel glances up from where he's leaning against the wall and absentmindedly rubbing his hands together, probably trying to jumpstart circulation. "Okay."

So down they go, their path illuminated by Sam's flashlight. Once they're actually in the panic room (which is really more like a panic basement) he shines the beam over the rows and rows of generic canned goods. "What do you feel like, Cas?"

Castiel shrugs. Sam frowns.

"There's chowder," he says helpfully, reaching out and picking one can up. He looks over it for an expiration date; finds one that isn't until another two years. Tamora must have kept the place up-to-date. "You ever had chowder, Cas?"

"No."

Sam sighs and decides to stop dancing around. Putting the chowder back on the shelf, he turns to face Castiel directly. "How are you, Castiel? And don't just give me 'fine,' or something like that. Are you still feeling like you told me before? Homesick?"

Castiel gives him what Dean would describe as an impressive bitchface. "Sam. It's been less than a week since we had that conversation. While I recognize that you've been making an effort to make me feel… more accepting of my pathetic state, nothing has changed."

For some reason, that response irritates Sam. "It's not pathetic. You're human. I am too. That's okay."

Castiel turns away from him, looking petulant. "It's okay for _you_. But—"

"'But' what, Castiel? But you used to be an angel? Man, you _can't_ focus on that. I know it sucks, and I know it's hard, but you can't spend all of your time just thinking about how much you'd rather be in Heaven instead of Colorado. You can't keep worrying about what'll happen when you die, because it's just speeding that _up_ for you. Every day you spend moping about what happened before and what's going to happen in the future is a day in the present that you've just completely wasted. There are good things around. Me and Dean, we can show them to you. Just… just try, okay? Please? Because what you're doing isn't living, and I want you to. Live, I mean."

Sam stops, out of breath. That was a pretty good monologue for something that was completely improvised, if he does say so himself.

A single look at Castiel is enough to tell Sam that he didn't think it was. He meets Sam's eyes, and the look on his face is so blank, so starkly _dead_ that it's frightening. "That's what _you_ want. Don't assume it's what I do."

He turns around and walks up the stairs, leaving Sam alone in the panic room.

"Fuck," Sam says quietly, leaning back against the shelves. He drops his head and closes his eyes. What the hell is he supposed to _do_? The only plausible option seems to be waiting until something happens, until Castiel sees the light (figuratively, of course) on his own, but… well, Sam's not sure that'll ever happen. He's not sure if he or Castiel can afford to wait that long.

He takes another minute to himself, just breathing in and out in the darkened basement. He'll think of something. He has to.

Eventually Sam stands up, grabbing a couple of cans of the chowder. He goes upstairs and he heats them up over the fire, doles it out to Dean and to Castiel. There's no banter tonight. Castiel is withdrawn, and Dean is somehow able to sense that something went down in the basement – hell, maybe he even heard; it's not like the cabin is very big.

In any case, they eat in silence and go to bed early. No one feels much like playing cards or reading.

"We'll go back out tomorrow, okay?" Dean says as he stretches out along the couch – Sam and Castiel have been pushed to the floor tonight. "Now that we know where the thing's territory is, we can start really scouting around, okay?"

"Sounds good to me," Sam replies, curling close to the fire. Castiel is silent.

It takes Sam a long time to fall asleep, and when he does, he dreams that he's back inside the Impala, snow swirling down about him. But this time, Castiel is motionless where he sits against the wall of the car. His skin is grey and cold, and piles and piles of black feathers surround him. Sam reaches out to touch him, a sick feeling rising in his gut. When his hand makes contact, Castiel's eyes snap open – they're pale, too pale. A giant gust of wind strikes the car as Sam and Castiel stare at each other, and it sounds like someone is praying.

"Help me," Castiel finally says, and Sam nods and reaches out to touch him—

He wakes up with a start. The fire is burning low, almost out. Sam stares at it for a long time, watching until the embers finally die low, and thinking about what the hell he can do.

It's the next day that things go to hell.

Of course, Sam doesn't know that when he gets up after a night punctuated with short bursts of sleep and longer stretches of worried wakefulness. He doesn't recognize it as he bundles up for the steel grey sky and the low, whistling wind that strikes the cabin every few minutes, eerily similar to the sound from his dream before. Sam doesn't even recognize the day's importance when Castiel joins him and Dean five minutes after they were ready to go, looking like he slept even worse than Sam.

Dean leads the way again, surefooted and steady as he brings them through the woods. They walk down narrow side trails and paths that weren't previously there, always on alert for Bigfoot.

The weather gradually worsens. Sam thinks it was around nine in the morning when they set out, everyone having decided to sleep in, or something. By ten-thirty, the sky has gone from being a cool steel grey to a dark and stormy omen. The wind has picked up, becoming a constant that freezes Sam's neck and stings his finger even through his thick gloves.

"We need to turn back," he finally shouts at Dean. It can't be later than eleven, but the lighting is more akin to nightfall. He can barely hear his own voice, so heavy is the wind.

A snowflake drifts down, and then another. Sam gets the distinct feeling that he's going to see more and more of them before the day is over.

Dean glances at him and nods. His nose and cheeks are bright red from exposure, and Sam expects that although his grip on the gun is steady, his hands must still be frozen. He turns them around without a word, probably not wanting to waste breath on things that won't be heard anyway.

The snow grows worse as they continue on; it doesn't take long at all before it's coming down in earnest. Less than five minutes after Sam observed the first flake a thin layer is already covering the ground. The wind blows it around in swirls. It's a sight that maybe would have given Sam festive Christmas feelings were circumstances different, but he's the one stuck outside in it, and he's not really feeling the holiday spirit.

They've been walking back to the cabin for ten, maybe fifteen minutes when the wind dies down enough to let them hear the first distinctive _crack_ of snapping branches, immediately followed by a low, throaty grunt. The footsteps come a moment later, heavy pounding on the ground.

The three of them turn around in unison at the first sound, guns raising. Sam's heart is pounding, every frozen nerve in his body on alert – but neither he nor Dean is fast enough to stop what happens.

The creatures leaps out of the brush about ten feet away from them and immediately stands at its full height. Eight feet, at least, according to Sam's estimate. Long light brown fur covers it, though it clearly hasn't been taking care of itself, if the numerous matts are any indication. It's got an ugly face and unintelligent yellow eyes, and a mouthful of teeth that are impressively large, despite all the rot covering them.

It roars, and he and Dean cock their guns at precisely the same moment. Even Castiel gets his up, though he's a couple of seconds slower.

"Cas," Dean calls in a calm, steady voice. Castiel is the one closest to Bigfoot – he was walking a couple of feet behind Sam, a difference which didn't seem to matter before, but which seems absolutely vital at the moment. "Cas, I want you to move very slowly to the left. Stand right next to Sam, okay? I don't wanna shoot with you in front."

Castiel nods very slightly and begins inching over. The creature growls low in its throat, drool dripping from the corner of its mouth.

Cas is almost level with Sam when it leaps forward, letting out a piercing, deathly shriek as it goes.

He and Dean shoot at it seconds apart, but it moves quickly for a creature of its size, and neither of their bullets hit.

It knocks into Sam, punching him aside with a fierce swipe of its paw. Sam gasps as all of the breath rushes out of him and he goes flying, slamming into Dean and bringing him to the ground. By some miracle neither of their guns go off.

For a moment Sam more or less blacks out, completely unaware of the world around him as he lies on the ground with one arm wrapped around his stomach, wheezing. It feels like his entire abdomen has turned into one giant bruise. It's just about the worst reaction to an injury that a hunter could have, but for those precious few seconds all he can do is gasp, tears of pain pricking the corners of his eyes.

It's Dean who brings him back to his senses with a firm hand on his shoulder and a repetition of his name: "Sam? Sam!"

Sam blinks and groans. He doesn't taste blood in his mouth, he notes, though he definitely bit his tongue. With great effort (and a bit of help from his brother) he pushes himself up onto his knees. "Dean? What's goin' on? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Got kinda banged up when you crashed into me, but I can deal with a couple of bruises. It's Cas. Bigfoot just dragged him off."

For a moment, Sam's world stops spinning. He stares at Dean, not understanding what he's saying. Cas? No. Cas is fine, he has to be, he can't be…

Sam blinks and gets to his feet. He almost falls down halfway through at the intense twinge of pain that stabs outwards from his gut. Dean catches him, though. "Hey, hey. Deep breath, Sam. Can you find your way back to the cabin on your own, or do you want me to bring you?"

Sam stares at him, not sure if he's hearing right. He hit the ground pretty hard, after all. It's possible that he banged his head. "Are you crazy? I'm not going back without Cas."

"Dude, you took a pretty heavy fall. You should really go back, make sure that there're no broken ribs or internal bleeding." Dean's eyes flicker off beyond Sam, off where Bigfoot must have dragged Cas. "I'll go after them. Don't worry, I'll bring Cas back."

"I'm not letting you go without backup, and that's final." Sam picks his gun off the ground and brushes it off. "Now, which way did they go?"

As they're tracking the cryptid's trail, Dean tells him the details – it had snagged Castiel's jacket in its giant claws and bounded off into the distance. No, of course it didn't look like Cas had been killed. It hadn't broken his back or anything; Castiel was still calling for help as it took him off.

"None of the vics had broken backs," Dean reminds him. "It looks like Bigfoot likes to keep his food alive for awhile. Kinda like a wendigo, maybe."

It's not a particularly consoling thought, but at least Dean tries.

Sam doesn't think that the creature could have gotten _that_ far ahead of them. The forest is thick, after all, and paths for eight-foot-tall bipeds are severely lacking. And it didn't have too much of a head start, did it? Truthfully, Sam isn't entirely sure how much time he spent in agonizing wheezing.

In any case, they've been on the move in what Dean swears is the right direction for about ten minutes when Sam finds Castiel's hat. His heart leaps to his throat as he bends down and picks it up.

It isn't particularly striking, as hats go. It was one Dean had grabbed off the discount rack of some clothing store they were in back when it became clear that Castiel needed some semblance of a wardrobe. It's a plain wool cap, brown-gray in color. Nothing special.

But it's _Castiel's_ , and now he isn't wearing it, and that's not okay. Sam is chilled to the bone even with his hat on, and the one that he's wearing is considerably thicker than Castiel's.

He stares at it, unable to move. All he can do is remember his terrible dream, and envision Castiel frozen, Bigfoot's claws still snagged in his jacket.

"Hey." Dean's hand is on his shoulder, and he's firmly shaking him. Sam looks up at him and blinks. The snow is thick now, and Dean's face wavers amidst the constant rush of flakes. "Sam. You with me?"

"I – yeah. Dean, we've gotta find him. What if—" but the words are too terrible, and Sam can't bring himself to voice his fears.

Dean understands, though. Dean always does. "Hey. He made it out of Purgatory alive, didn't he? And let me tell you, some of the shit we saw in there makes being dragged along by Bigfoot seem like a sleigh ride through Central Park. He's _fine_ , Sam. We're gonna go get him, and he's gonna be _fine_."

Sam swallows and nods. He pockets the hat, and mentally curses himself for being so stupid, for wasting precious moments freaking out instead of moving. What the hell kind of a hunter is he? "Come on. Let's go."

So they go, through the woods and the snow. They crash through the brush and cut across the trails. Occasionally they see what looks like a giant footprint or an area of disturbed snow that makes it seem as though something was being dragged across it, but that becomes increasingly rare the deeper they go.

Sam is starting to despair after what feels like hours on the hunt, with no sounds but the howling wind and no signs of life but a few birds launching themselves up to better places. His fingers are freezing, and he doesn't think that he's capable of shooting. His legs are burning from effort; his abdomen is throbbing with his every move. He's definitely bruised up from Bigfoot's whap, even if nothing internal has been damaged. But worst of all, the image of Castiel in his dream, skin grey and eyes impossibly pale, just keeps coming back.

He thinks his despair is about to get the best of him when Dean abruptly stops and shoots out his arm, keeping Sam from going any further. Not looking at him, Dean raises a finger to his lips.

Sam listens. The wind sighs through the tree branches and swirls the snow around them. It's almost peaceful. Almost serene. Sam imagines he would find this beautiful, if only he weren't so busy worrying about whether or not Castiel lives.

And then he hears it – the unmistakable low grunts of a giant animal hard at work. Completely in character for something dragging a human body back to its lair.

Dean points very slowly, and Sam turns in the direction at an equal speed. He sees it then: less that fifteen yards away it stands, walking at a reasonably brisk pace. Its right hand/paw is obscured from Sam's vision, blocked by a combination of a giant tree and snow, but Sam is almost certain that it's dragging Castiel with that arm.

His brother glances at him and carefully raises his gun. Sam nods and mimics the action.

Dean mouths the countdown: _three… two… one…_

They leap forward without making a sound, save for the blasts from their guns. Bigfoot turns around and roars, dropping Castiel. For a moment Sam fears for Cas's safety – Bigfoot could trample him in his fear, or one of them could shoot low. But he doesn't have time to dwell on that, so he just focuses on getting as many bullets as he can into the monster's hairy body.

It dies bloody. Sam thinks it's one of Dean's shots that finally does it, going straight through the eyeball, but it's impossible to be sure. It doesn't really matter. The only important thing is that it falls, and when it does, it falls _away_ from Castiel. Sam is thankful for small miracles, though he doesn't really spend a lot of time thinking about that. He's too busy rushing forward to get to Cas, to kneel down next to his body and take stock of the situation.

It's bad, he knows that as soon as he sees Castiel. His winter coat is torn from Bigfoot's claws, the back of it ripped open from the bottom to the hood. One glove is missing, somehow lost during the journey. The blue scarf that Castiel wears is loose, no protection at all against the winter weather.

Worse yet is Castiel's face. It's pale, almost as bad as Sam's dream. His eyes are closed, and for a moment Sam's heart stops, entirely too certain that this is it, this is the end, Castiel had died out here in the snow, terrified, no one with him in his final moments—

But then reason gets the best of him, and he peels off his glove and places two frigid fingers against Castiel's neck. For several agonizing seconds there is nothing but stillness, and Sam's fingers start to shake with the effort of holding steady in the snow.

Then there's a beat, and another one, and Sam closes his eyes and thanks God, even though He probably isn't around to here.

"Hey." Dean's squatting down next to him, apparently having confirmed that Bigfoot is really dead. "Is he—"

"He's okay. Well, he's _alive_ , anyway."

"Good." Dean nods and licks his lips. His cheeks and nose are bright red, but the rest of him seems very, very pale. "Can we move him? Nothing's broken?"

Sam does a cursory inspection, carefully running his hands over Castiel's arms, spine, and legs. "No. I don't think so."

"Okay. How do we want to do this—"

Before Dean has even finished speaking, Sam is carefully lifting Castiel up. He's fairly light for a man of his size, or at least that's how it feels. Probably it's the adrenaline pounding through his veins that makes it seem like that, but. Regardless of the cause, he keeps Castiel carefully cradled in his arms, bridal-style.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You sure you can make it like that? I mean, he's not exactly tiny..."

"We'll find out." The snow is being blown about harder than ever now, flakes chapping against Sam's cheeks, and he can only imagine how cold Castiel must be right now. "Do you know the way back?"

"Of course I do." Dean turns around and starts shoving his way through the snow. "C'mon."

Naturally, Sam goes along with him, Castiel unconscious in his arms. They leave the Bigfoot carcass in the snow; it'll be a feast for all the scavengers, Sam thinks. At least it'll do some good.

The cabin appears like a mirage: one moment it's not there, the next it is, and the third, they're stumbling into it. Literally. They weren't able to see it until they were practically right on top of it, and both of them are terribly uncoordinated, limbs and joints completely numb.

It takes Dean far too long to get out the key and work the frozen lock open. He swears through the whole thing, thick gloves hindering more than they help, until Dean finally just tugs them off and drops them. It must freeze him, but it's effective: within half a minute, the three of them are all inside the cabin, and the door is slammed.

Sam inhales deeply; he didn't realize just how hard he was struggling to breathe on the journey here. Suddenly Castiel is very heavy in his arms, and it takes the last of Sam's self-control to drop to his knees and carefully lay Castiel out.

"Fire," Dean says from above him. "We need one. I'll get on that."

"Good call. We need to get him warm." They need to get warm too, but not nearly as much as Cas does. It's dark inside the cabin right now, but Sam fears that he would be able to see a bluish tint to Castiel's fingers if he could see at all.

Sam quickly strips out of his own soaked gear as Dean brings up the wood and starts setting up the fire. He figures that he can't help Castiel get warm if he's still covered in snow and slush himself.

"How are we going to do this?" Dean asks from where he's just begun to get a flame. "I'd say bath, but there's nowhere to have one. Or else hospital, but I don't think we can get out of here, not in this weather." He sits back from his knees and stares at Sam, face serious. "Blankets aren't gonna cut it, from the looks of it. I mean, you can probably tell better than I can, but…"

"You're right," Sam confirms. He's peeling Castiel's torn jacket off now, and he can tell that the situation is bad. Castiel's skin is clammy, wet to the touch. Ideally they would be in a motel somewhere, a place with plenty of scratchy towels that could be used to roughly dry him off, but… well, this isn't an ideal situation, not at all. "Only thing I can think of is…"

"Body heat," Dean finishes, not looking away from the fire for confirmation. It’s a big blaze now, crackling as it fills the cabin up with heat. Sam can feel it already, a thawing on the back of his neck. He's unbelievably grateful for it. "Would that work? I mean, we're both still pretty cold…"

"Believe me, we're warmer than him." Sam pulls off Castiel's slush-coated remaining glove. He automatically takes the limp hand between his and starts rubbing, doing everything he can to get some warmth into the fallen angel's body.

"True." Dean nods and turns away from the blaze, rocking back on his heels. "Do you wanna go one at a time? That way one of us can get warm while the other person stays with him."

"Uh, sure. Yeah. Sounds great. Should I, you know…" Sam gestures vaguely. Unfortunately, judging by the look on Dean's face, he does not, in fact, know. "…strip him down?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Probably. I mean, boxers on and everything, but heat's gonna do more for him than clothes. Should I go first, or…"

"No, get dry. I'll take first shift." Because even though Sam knows Dean wouldn't hesitate to spoon with Castiel if it meant saving his life, he's well aware that Dean's masculinity feels threatened by doing such a thing. Sam can take one for the team.

There's nothing weird about that, right? Cuddling for warmth? It's okay. Sam isn't really sure why he's thinking all of this as he automatically unclothes Castiel.

Dean, meanwhile, has managed to take off his own soaking garments and move on to other things in his boxers, because he's apparently not in the mood to get dressed right away. "I think you should lie in front of the fireplace. Unfortunately, we don't have a bearskin rug for the two of you to get cozy on, but…"

He takes the quilt from the couch and tosses it onto the ground, grinning. "That's a start. And I think there's a thermal blanket down cellar, if you need it."

Sam glares as he strips off Castiel's pants. He feels lewd doing this, even though he knows that he's probably saving Castiel's life. "Is there a towel? I want to dry him off."

Dean makes a "hmm" sound and putters around. Sam sits back on his knees and watches Castiel, who's now down to his underwear. "And bring me a new pair of boxers while you're at it, would you?" The thought of touching Castiel's junk makes him feel kind of dirty, but he knows he can't exactly leave the guy with soaked-through garments against his dick.

Castiel stirs just as Dean tosses over the underwear and a small shaving towel, which is apparently the only sort of towel that three bachelors bother to bring into a cabin without running water. Sam sets it to the side, hovering near Castiel's head. "Cas? Hey, Cas?"

Castiel's cheek twitches. He blinks. Sam reaches down and touches his face carefully, just to let him know he's not alone. "You're all right, man. You gave us kind of a scare, and you're freezing, but you're going to be okay."

Castiel says something too quiet for Sam to hear. He bends down, puts his ear close to his lips. "What was that?"

"It hurts," Castiel says in a paper-thin voice. His eyes are heavy and half-closed. Sam is fairly certain that he's not entirely conscious.

Still, he squeezes Castiel's shoulder as gently as he can. "Yeah, you must be pretty sore right now. But you'll feel better soon, okay? Just get some rest. Don't worry about things."

He thinks Castiel says something in response, but again, it's too quiet for him to hear. Before he can ask Cas to repeat it, Dean is by his side, gently shoving him out of the way. "Dude, get yourself dry too. I can towel down Cas. And while you're at it, toss him some pants? I'm thinkin' that he'd probably like to be covered from the waist down."

So Sam obeys his brother, changing into his second-warmest pair of sleep pants. The warmest he tosses to Dean to put on Cas. He's foolishly glad that his brother is taking care of the whole lower half thing.

Minutes later, he's lying in front of the fireplace. Dean has carried Cas over, and Sam carefully takes his once-again unconscious form. He melds himself into Castiel's chilly body as much he can, wrapping his arms tightly around Castiel's bare chest, laying his hands against Castiel's neck to try to get their warmth to spread quicker through his body.

Dean wraps the quilt around them. It's fluffy and soft, nothing like the scratchy motel blankets to which Sam is accustom. He snuggles closer to Castiel as they lie inside the veritable blanket burrito.

"Get warm," Dean says, a note of affection in his voice. Sam snorts, resting his chin on top of Castiel's head. He's trying to wrap him up in as much warmth as he can.

He watches the flickering fire as he feels Castiel slowly warm near him. The flames are beautiful after the squalls outside, and their jumps entrance him. He feels himself slipping off to sleep, and clutches Castiel all the tighter as he does.

Sam wakes up toasty warm, with morning wood as hard as anything he got as a teenager.

He blinks. There's another body in his arms, and…

 _Oh._ Castiel. Of course. He pulls back a little to get a better look at him, a thousand other thoughts running beneath his immediate questions: where's Dean? What time is it? How long has he been out?

Then he meets Castiel's eyes, and all of those other thoughts go rushing out of his head.

Cas is staring at him with a piercing, unreadable expression. His eyes are wide and dark in the light of the still-dancing fire.

Castiel hesitantly raises his hand and touches his cheek. Sam holds his breath, keeping Castiel's gaze. Something big is happening, he thinks, but he doesn't know what it is. Only Castiel does, and so Sam waits until he's ready to do whatever it is he has to do.

Finally Castiel licks his lips, his hand resting on Sam's face. In a raspy voice he whispers, "Sam?"

"Yeah?" he replies in a voice just as low as Castiel's. This is a hushed, subdued moment that is also more important than maybe anything that's happened since Dean and Cas came back from Purgatory. "What is it, Cas?"

"Sam," Castiel repeats, his hand curling slightly on Sam's cheek. "I… I was marked to die out there; I was being dragged, and I didn't know what was happening, and I thought for certain that I would never see you or Dean again, but… I didn't want that. I didn't want to die, Sam, I wanted to live… I want to _live_ , Sam, oh, God…"

And then he's pressing against Sam, his lips desperately meeting Sam's, and Sam isn't really sure what's happening or _why_ Castiel is doing this, but his lips are rough and warm, and it feels _right_.

"Jesus, I swear my piss froze— _oh_." Dean's voice echoes through the cabin, and Sam and Castiel are breaking apart. Sam's cheeks are red, and so are Castiel's, but that felt so _right_ that he doesn't have any regrets.

The snow has stopped, Sam finds out when he tumbles out of the blanket burrito. Dean had fallen asleep when he was supposed to be keeping watch, and hadn't been able to relieve him from cuddling duty. There's a total of maybe five inches on the ground, not a whole lot. A good thaw, and they should be able to go to town.

The day is hectic. Castiel is weak as a kitten, bruised absolutely _everywhere_ , so he can't do very much. And Sam's got a giant bruise at the base of his sternum, which is pretty damn sore itself. They make the decision to wait to move out of the cabin for another day.

They all putter around the cabin (or at least, Sam and Dean do; Castiel stays curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped firmly around him), all trying not to meet each other's eyes. It's… not fun, especially considering that there's not a whole lot of cabin to be puttering around. Sam mostly reads, starting a book on ancient Babylonian religious practices. It's one of the ones that they were able to salvage from the ruins of Bobby's place.

Around sunset, Dean announces that he's going outside to check out the Impala. "You know, make sure she's in okay shape to be getting out tomorrow. You two can…"

He makes a vague gesture and winks at Sam. Sam blushes and glares, and subtly flips him off.

Dean snorts and struts to the door. He goes outside, and then Sam and Castiel are alone.

Sam clears his throat. Castiel stares at him.

"Can I…" Sam gestures at the couch. Castiel nods, scooching into the very corner. Which wasn't really necessary, considering how little space he takes up, but.

Sam settles in next to him. "So."

"Was the kiss unwarranted?" Castiel asks without preamble. "Because if so, I apologize. I had thought it was appropriate in the moment, but I _am_ poor at reading body language—"

"Cas," Sam says. "Cas, it was… are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

Castiel blinks, clearly caught off-guard. "I – yes, that would be nice. Thank you."

So Sam goes down cellar and he finds two cans of what he thinks is appropriate. He takes them upstairs, and he heats them up, and he thinks about what he's supposed to say. He has time, he thinks – Dean won't come in if he doesn't know what's going on; he doesn't want to scar himself. But Sam doesn't want to leave his brother out in the freezing cold. He's not that cruel.

When the soup is done, Sam sits back down on the couch and hands Castiel his bowl and a spoon, with a word of caution as to the soup's temperature. Castiel thanks him and takes it, and they eat the comfort food in silence, Castiel's hands occasionally shaking, but never quite spilling the soup.

Sam puts his bowl down when it's about half empty. He faces Castiel, who mimics his gesture. They look at each other for a moment.

Sam knows that it's on him to break the silence, and so he does. "It wasn't unwarranted, Cas. Not at all. I…" he runs a hand through his hair, puzzling over the words. "I wanted it too. I mean, it's not really something I had sort of thought about before, kissing you, but it felt right. For me. What about you?"

Castiel nods, looking impossibly relieved. "I felt that way too. I… I'm glad. That you felt the same."

Sam nods, not knowing what to say. They both busy themselves with their soup for another minute before Sam gathers up the courage to stop drowning his worries in food and move onto the next topic. "So. About what you said this morning, about wanting to live…"

Cas visibly closes up, his face becoming blank and his arms curling around his chest. "What of it?"

"Did you mean it?" Sam asks, keeping his voice low and gentle. "Because, Cas, I… I really, really want you to live. Really. I know it won't be easy, because being a person isn't. But… man, I don't want you to die." His throat is tight all of a sudden, the weight of what he's saying almost too much to bear. "I. I want to teach you about being a human. I want to help make things easier and better for you; I know that's not going to be easy, I know it's always going to kind of hurt, but… I can ease that ache for you a bit. If you let me."

He stops and stares at Cas, who looks back. For a moment there's dead silence, just the two of them regarding each other.

Then Castiel lurches forward, and his arms are around Sam, clenching at him tightly. His mouth hovers near Sam's cheek, breath hot against his skin. "I think I want that," he murmurs.

Sam nods, wrapping his arms tightly around Castiel's back. The road ahead is long, but it's there, at least. As Sam rests his chin in Castiel's soft hair, he thinks that things are looking a little bit brighter.

  



End file.
